Blackburn Challenge: Slow Motion

The champ.  (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

I was excited when the Blackburn Challenge organizers announced an web-based competition to provide a pithy slogan for the race.  They were probably expecting something upbeat like "Twenty miles of liquid fun!" or "Take a magical tour of Cape Ann."  That was a miscalculation.  As we're now all aware due to the high-profile copyright lawsuit by the producers of Rocky IV, the new official slogan is "I must break you."  Odd choice to personify the race that way, but somehow apt.  I personally preferred "Nope", but admittedly that had infringement issues of its own.  Despite the ominous new tagline, competitors didn't seem dissuaded.

In the spirit of race namesake Howard Blackburn (who famously ate his crewmate before starting his epic winter row to safety, just to bask undiluted in solo glory), Mary Beth and I invited fellow competitors Tim Dwyer and Rob Jehn to stay with us before the race.  This proved to be an error in judgement on everyone's part, as we all spent the night sleepless in the candlelight, daggers at the ready.

Last year, Rob Jehn and Craig Impens battled for the entire race, with Craig getting the edge in the final sprint.  I sensed that Rob hadn't quite negotiated the five stages of grief over this devastating loss, mostly because he kept denying that he had even participated in 2022.  When confronted with photographic evidence from the finish line, he just muttered something about doppelgangers while jabbing Craig's face with a handy dagger.  C'mon, dude.  That was my phone.  In any event, Rob was looking forward to repeating his dominant performance from the last time he had raced the course, back in 2021.  He'd be joined by inveterate Canadians Jack Van Dorp and Brian Heath, who made their annual summer migration to Gloucester in hopes of claiming their own podium spots.

This one photo of the North Shore crew deserves an entire blog post of its own.

Local ne'er-do-well and perennial nemesis, Matt Drayer, would mercifully be out of my category, paddling a V10 Double with beloved native Dan Brooks.  They'd be facing off against Team Lamb (Erin & Alan, who have repeatedly rejected my preferred moniker, The Dylambic Duo) in their own class, and Wesley Echols and Tim Dwyer in an SS20+ tandem.  Other notable paddlers included the legendary Dana Gaines, who hit platinum membership way back at his 15th Blackburn and has since accrued so many multiplied miles that he'd technically be completing his 244th iteration this year.  Doubles "partner" Phil Warner was assigned to do the actual paddling, as well as serving complimentary lobster and champagne at Straitsmouth.

Before the race, I heard someone offering simple, practical advice for navigation once exiting the Annisquam - "Keep the land to your left".  Oops.  He must have misspoken.  "Port." I helpfully corrected.  Assuming the recipients of this wisdom averaged 40 miles a day, brought a few extra energy gels, and carried a change of underwear, we could expect to see them at the finish of the 2025 Blackburn.  I felt bad for the suckers who didn't bring enough cash to cover the Panama Canal transit fee, though.  Of course, the quicker circumnavigation - keeping Cape Ann to your starboard - would entail only 20 miles of paddling, although in some years that extra underwear might nevertheless come in handy. 

I lined up next to Rob, Jack, and Brian.  Or rather, amongst them.  With my less-than-explosive start, I should have known that I would soon find myself squeezed between these guys, desperately looking for a unclaimed patch of water large enough to plant a paddle blade.  After a couple of solid plants on Jack's boat threatened to cause an international incident, I relented and ceded the disputed territory of Rob's starboard draft to Jack.  I slipped onto Rob's stern, with Brian likewise behind Jack.

Rob managed to free himself of parasites within a couple minutes, opening up a half-dozen boat length gap that would persist for most of the trip out the Annisquam.  As we progressed, the strength of the incoming tide grew, knocking a knot off our speeds even when tucked out of the worst of the current.  I managed to get around Jack, who I now pulled in pursuit of Rob.  Brian stayed on the train for a mile or so, but eventually tumbled off.

I enjoy the Hokey Pokey as much as the next guy, but I'm not sure it was a particularly effective as a group warm-up drill.

Despite not having kayaked there until I was 37, my formative years were spent paddling the Annisquam. Having been practically whelped on the marshy estuary, I've been able to use a few navigational sleights-of-hand to my advantage in past Blackburns - including some feats that left Rob blinking in disbelief that his 10 length lead had been magically cut to 8 and a half.  From such harsh instruction, he's since learned to frequently check back with me, adjusting his behavior accordingly.  Little did he realize that my greatest trick had been in planning all along for just such an adaptation.

Each time that Rob started to crane back, I'd adopt a crazy new "strategy" for him to mimic.  Weaving through the moored boats.  Only paddling on one side.  Wearing my shorts inside-out.  He invariably took the bait, but these moves were just for giggles.  The real pay-off came when Rob looked back to find me cutting the final bend of the Annisquam ridiculously close to shore.  He corrected his course to adopt my purported line, while I swerved away from the sandy shallows once his gaze returned forward.  I watched with glee as Rob heeled his boat increasingly to one side to avoid scraping his rudder and then ground to a halt.  The few seconds it took him to hop out of his boat and drag it to deeper water was just enough for me to catch him.  Jack, who had remained scrupulously clear of the shallows, hovered a few lengths back.

My ingenious ploy bought me all of 3 minutes of draft time.  Exiting the river, Rob broke free once again while I was clumsily (and boorishly) trying to pass an outrigger who had the temerity to be out on the same course.  Over the next mile, Rob stretched his advantage to a dozen length lead.  A short distance back, Jack was resolved to stay on a line 50 meters inside of mine.  At one point, I tested his commitment to this strategy by angling over to within 25 meters of the shore.  Sure enough, when I glanced to the right, there was Jack, boat on his shoulder, scrambling spryly across the rocky coast.  He seemed to be gaining on me during this stretch, so I quickly veered back to open water, a subdued splash behind me signaled the end of Jack's portage.  There may have been some mild degree of exercise-induced hypoxia associated with this anecdote.

Race buddies Elmore, Jerry, and Bernie.  The camaraderie of mile 7 was inevitably replaced by the bitter recriminations of mile 12 (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

Although the tide had been restraining our exuberance in a motherly manner (firm, but gentle, and with occasional snacks), the sea was smooth with barely a wisp of wind.  At Halibut Point, however, we were collectively shipped off to boarding school, where "tough love" was the order of the day.  Inevitably, this would later evolve to rampant sadism and, for some of the less hardened pupils, psychotic breaks.  I'm getting ahead of myself, though.  At orientation, we were merely slapped in the face and reminded that this was the Atlantic Ocean, not our mama's duck pond.  There was some confused refractory chop around the rocky points and an unwelcome headwind, but crossing Sandy Bay towards Straitsmouth wasn't an unreasonable first assignment.

Rob was slipping inexorably further ahead during this span, but I took some solace from the possibility that Jack had the same feeling about me.  If his inside line had been helping him while closer to the coast, in Sandy Bay it was doing him no favors - I could see him gradually falling back.  A quarter of the way to Straitsmouth, I heard the first waft of the dreadful sound that would burrow itself into my brain so deeply that I hear it still.  Hut!  The six-person outriggers had started immediately after the skis.  Hut!  The lead OC-6 had blasted by as we left the Annisquam, but now the second was approaching at a rate usually associated with glaciers or your slower growing mosses.  Hut!  For the next half-hour, the rhythmic call to switch paddle sides would scrape at my nerves, fraying my sanity.  Hut!  I can now testify from first-hand experience that torture is an unreliable interrogation technique, since at one point (dear God, make it stop) I confessed to war crimes in Bosnia, cheating on my Econ 101 mid-term, and having a secret crush on Mrs. Garrett.  Hmm.  Somewhat unreliable.

Before you comment that "the OC-6 paddlers themselves seem to have no problems maintaining their sanity after 3 hours of calls", I'd say that (a) you apparently haven't met that many outrigger paddlers and (b) it's a matter of context.  If your own 5 year old (it's Walter, right?) whacks you repeatedly on the head with a croquet mallet, that's adorable.  If it's me getting whacked on the melon, that's felonious assault and Walter is going to be spending the next 35 years in the Big House.  I forgot to mention that in this analogy, we're in Canada - they don't mollycoddle minors up there.  In any event, my hypnotherapist (you may remember Dr. Huber) has promised to wipe all memory of the traumatizing chant, but so far he's only succeeded in making me forget where I put my wallet.

By necessity (except, perhaps, for shore-clambering Jack) boats are funneled through the narrow Straitsmouth gap after traversing Sandy Bay.  I must have got a hold of some bad juju before the race (never trust unlicensed parking lot vendors), because, despite my best efforts, I arrived at the throttle point simultaneously with the OC-6 mentioned in passing above, two rowboats, and a double ski piloted by Chris Kielb and Rob Flanagan.  The tightening situation required deft maneuvering to avoid incident, but I instead opted to close my eyes and hope for the best.  Only when the screaming (mine) stopped did a I dare to reopen them.  I have no new scars, so it seems like everything worked out just fine. 

If technique and style points were factored into the results, I would have been disqualified.  (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

Although tempered by the disturbed waters around each subsequent headland, we enjoyed a tidal boost after Straitsmouth.  This uncharacteristic respite from antagonistic conditions faded after clearing Lands End, where we started our 3 mile trek across open water.  Our punishment now took the form of a headwind and waves predominantly from the quarter beam.  Seconds stretched to minutes, and minutes stretched to curses and impassioned prayers that the distant coast would get at least marginally less distant.  That particular request wasn't immediately granted, but I did receive one unexpected blessing from above - the OC-6 took an outside line ahead and was finally out of earshot.  On a negative note, Rob had similarly advanced, and was finally out of eyeshot.

Many of those anxious for landfall after their endless odyssey found themselves in emotional turmoil after achieving their goal.  On one hand, Hooray!  On the other, Zounds!  It's tough to describe the chaotic ocean surface exactly, but perhaps "prickly" comes closest.  We would also accept "nettlesome".  Between the prevailing beam waves, slop reflected randomly from the craggy shore, and undersea seismic activity, conditions were sub-optimal for paddlers who already had 15 miles worth of balance fatigue under their belts.  Although challenging even for veterans, this rough-and-tumble hazing took its toll on the underclassmen.  Several had to be hustled into decompression chambers after the race, lest the sudden change in anxiety levels burst their fragile psyches.

I managed to bumble through the disorder, bouncing along haphazardly in a path that led more-or-less in the right direction.  How different from my early Blackburn years, where I mostly floundered instead of bumbling.  Rounding East Point, the beam waves were finally forced into a more favorable alignment, providing juicy rides along the Dog Bar, just waiting to be harvested.  That's more of a theoretical than empirical observation, since fatigue prevented me from actually sinking my teeth into most of those plums.

The two mile trip from the Dog Bar to the finish across a busy Gloucester harbor is typically an interminable slog - a life sentence punctuated by moments of powerboat-induced terror.  With a breeze at our backs and the reduction of the bounty on paddlers (recently reclassified from "pestilent scourge" to "nuisance species" by the Harbormaster), this year's traverse was only 95% as unpleasant as usual.  And now with a sustainable cull rate!  For once I passed the finish line looking robust enough that concerned spectators weren't calling 911.

Two legendary watermen.  That's 12-time Molokai winner Oscar Chalupsky in the black shirt.  And Blackburn rower extraordinaire Rich Klajnscek in the blue shirt and orange hat.  Our staff is still trying to identify the guy next to Oscar.

No single stretch of the Blackburn was particularly onerous this year, but the relentlessness of unfavorable conditions made for a humbling race.

Rob had notched his second Blackburn championship in 2:54:03.  I don't mean to take anything away from his performance, but I'd hardly be a conscientious journalist if I didn't point out that this was the slowest winning time in nearly 25 years.  I will, however, graciously admit that his 5 minute advantage over 2nd (me) and 10 minute edge over 3rd (Jack) indicates that Rob isn't quite the slouch the facts objectively show him to be.  Johna Till Johnson claimed the women's HPK class, while Jean Kostelich won the SS20+ class.  John Stevens was the men's SS20+ champ.  The HPK tandem team of Matt & Dan came in as the overall fastest surfski at 2:51:50, while the SS20+ duo of Wesley & Tim slotted themselves between me and Jack as the 4th overall ski.  Rejuvenated by his first tandem race, Wesley was heard to shout "We're going around again!" just prior to being knocked unconscious by Tim.

Here's the prescription for those who need to ease themselves back into racing after their 3-to-7 hour long Blackburn trauma.  Start with a flatwater outing on the relatively tranquil Connecticut River - the New England Paddlesports Championship (register at PaddleGuru) on July 30th in Hinsdale, NH.  Follow that with the more adventurous Clean Ocean Access Paddle 2023 in Newport, RI on August 19th (register at PaddleGuru).  Then throw yourself whole-heartedly back into the open water fray at the Nahant Bay Cup in Swampscott, MA on August 26th (probable date - keep tuned).  

You can view many great photos of the race from Phil Sachs (at Halibut Point) and Glen Tine (at Straitsmouth). 

Hut!